


Cold Feet, Warm Hearts

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hobbit Courting, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Romance, Slight pining, Stream of Consciousness, and feet, and not only the hobbity kind, but rather determined ones, if unnecessarily so, in which there are socks, of sorts, of the naked kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins had really, really tried. But even the most resiliant of hobbits would eventually take to knitting. Cold feet were just - horrible. Even if they belonged to very handsome dwarf kings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet, Warm Hearts

Well, yes.

It _was_ a little forward.

A tad brazen, perhaps.

Somewhat Getting-Very-Much-Ahead-Of-One´s-Hobbit-Self, if one thought about it.

Which was why it was a very good thing that there was nobody in the Mountain who was thinking about it and very much no-one who would think to think about it and Bilbo Baggins had never been so glad that he currently found himself surrounded by dwarves and that there was no danger of any visiting delegations from Mirkwood or Dale or the Iron Hills or the worst of all options, the Shire, because if any such calamity should occur he would not only have to vehemently deny any such extremely _rude_ insinuations but also explain himself to -

The King.

And _would_ that not be embarrassing.

And really, he was in no mood for all the ensuing awkwardness and he had only recently accomplished the huge feat that was the entirely too stubborn and noble dwarf truly accepting that he had been forgiven for anything that may have been said or done in the days before the Battle and quite liked their cosy, little tea and chess sessions after dinner and the way the light from the great fireplace caught in the dwarf´s hair and - 

Honestly.

They were just … socks.

And as socks did not grow anywhere or could be grown anywhere someone obviously had to knit them. Since apparently the choices that were available at any stalls or from any grander establishments did not meet with his Majesty´s approval. Not that he blamed the King for apparently disliking the strange, horribly restricting woolly things but those royal feet were tiny (if rather cute, if anyone must know) and surprisingly soft and – well - 

Cold.

Really.

You´d think with the poor, wee things being imprisoned in those nasty steel-caped things most of the time they would be toasty warm once freed but no!, Thorin´s feet made a hobbit jump upon contact. Nearly. 

And did this hobbit not know that!

Personally.

From experience.

Touchy-feely experience, as it were.

~ ~ ~ ~

The first time it happened, Bilbo, in the middle of the delicate task that was the inconspicuous removal of a healthy number of the dried little grapes which were really quite unnecessarily overpopulating his plate; froze mid-nuisance attack, his nose twitching. Twice.

Hm.

That -

Lowering his fork again, very calmly – because obviously that had just been a trick of his befuddled mind, which was _quite_ obviously affected (he was going to have a very nice, very to-the-point, very much overdue discussion with Bombur before the week was out. Being willing to tolerate raisins in your cake did most certainly not mean one had to be gifted with practically a mine of them! No baked goods deserved such horrible treatment! And no shamefully easily deflating hobbit either, no matter how much they wilted when faced with a big, pleased smile and a slightly too energetic, warm pat on his back and _I remember you saying you liked them in those pastries in Lake-Town, Master Bilbo, so I made sure there was a little extra for you tonight!_ \- and for Yavanna´s sake, it´s _Bilbo_ , no Master necessary, thank you.) - the hobbit resumed his earlier occupation.

Nasty things, raisins were.

And Bombur would surely know that if the well-meaning dwarf had not - 

_Nope._

That was - 

Not his afflicted mind.

Nor his equally afflicted imagination.

That was - 

A foot.

A very _naked_ foot.

It was not _his_ foot.

Nor any other hobbit-foot.

Well, that sort of figured; seeing he was the only hobbit in the Mountain, but - 

Someone had bumped his foot with their... foot.

Shouldn´t any bumping – touching - _stroking_?! - be taking place with a -

Boot?

But there was quite clearly no boot involved, and he felt very capable of delivering that verdict because previous encounters with one or the other of those silly contraptions had had him yelp and, he was quite ashamed to admit, curse in a really quite unhobbit-ish manner, and as he felt not terribly inclined to give himself over to either of these pastimes at that present moment he -

_Yavanna´s Gardens!_

That foot – that naked, non-hobbit owned foot - 

Well, excuse him!, but one was perfectly allowed to feel slightly bemused when there was a strange soft sole bru - _brushing_ up and down your instep; be it ever so lightly, thank you very much!

And while that first, quick, almost careful touch could have been waved off as a mere accident, that second one - 

The hobbit sniffed.

Really.

If the dwarf thought _that_ subtle then -

There.

That should bring his point across quite nicely. And if anyone should complain about a severe lack of gentle-hobbit manners he would simply plead extensive exposure to all that dwarven lot and that would explain the matter and that would be that. Yes. Quite.

And it was not that he had used _that_ much force, really.

Just a quick, speaking, very-much-non-enamoured, uhm, stomp of his absolutely well-kept, clean, not-out-of-the-ordinary sized naked … foot.

Executed on the tiresome appendage that had been disrupting him in his painstaking - 

Oh dear.

He hadn´t hurt him, had he?

That wound was not troubling him anymore, was it?

Really, what was the stubborn dwarf even doing; frolicking around with the worst of his wounds having just healed; Oin had ordered for things to progress _slowly_ and with _care_ and here the truly extremely aggravating creature went and threw himself into the rebuilding of the Mountain and shouting at his advisers and taking a hobbit down to the forges and up to the highest levels where there were terraces and across various paths and hallways to where the grand market was slowly coming into life again and surely running himself absolutely ragged! And he wasn´t even certain that he ate enough, nor got enough sleep, the exasperating - 

And would you look at that!

Seriously?

He did not even seem the slightest bit abashed!

Put out!

Growly!

Instead - 

The dwarf king seemed almost - 

Pleased.

Nearly content, even.

Huh.

Huh?

The hobbit narrowed his eyes, stealing another look at the figure beside him.

Nope.

Definitely not – angry. Or pained. Or – was that the beginning of a _smile_?

Well.

Well if that was His Majesty´s sense of humour Bilbo supposed it would be a little naïve of him to be surprised, after all that had happened and – such, so he was just going to accept it as yet another Dwarven Oddity and think no more of it. 

And he was going to start to Think No More Of It any moment now – the second that that _foot_ -

The flustered hobbit resolutely ignored the younger Durin´s surprised reminder of Bombur´s promised plum cake having yet to be served and it was probably for the best that he also missed the fleeting, self-satisfied expression that crossed the dwarf´s uncle´s face as he excused himself with all the dignity he was able to muster after – well. 

His ears felt hot enough as it was.

As opposed to that really quite annoyingly relentless appendage.

The hobbit found himself hoping that its owner would find himself absolutely boot-less on his march back to his chambers.

It would serve the silly clot right to go to bed with cold feet.

~ ~ ~ ~

And it kept happening.

And even more perplexing – the dwarf took to walking around in Bilbo´s presence with his surprisingly lovely feet (even a fauntling sported more fuzz on his little feet than the mighty King of Dwarves! It was wonderfully peculiar. And really quite sweet. Made a tall, strong, imposing dwarf seem adorably … vulnerable and – that. Yes. Quite.) - 

Bare.

Naked.

A strange but not at all unpleasant routine that was Thorin Oakenshield spending more evenings than not in the Company´s former burglar´s chambers; sometimes dinner was ordered to be brought up; sometimes the dwarf walked in on the hobbit while he was indulging in a nightcap, usually turning the pages of a book with his unoccupied hand. He had long stopped flushing and squirming at being caught in naught but his nightshirt and dressing gown. If he was wearing the former. (Which might not strictly have been the case the first time he nearly dropped the pipe he had exchanged for the empty glass at the sound of that unexpected knock in the middle of the night.) 

Bilbo supposed the King found the quietness and cosiness in his rooms soothing after a long day of Court matters, guild disputes and document after document after document. He had wondered why Thorin chose to visit with him as regularly rather than just retire to his own chambers, if it was relaxation and solitude he sought but then, solitude could be as deafening in its own way and he did enjoy their low conversations and the occasional argument over their varying positions on some subject or other that was usually accompanied by that smouldering glare he had become very much immune to (if not unappreciative of. He had eyes, thank you.) and on occasion, they enjoyed a game of chess – the set unearthed; dusty but in surprisingly good shape; well, you wouldn´t suppose a dragon to be interested in strategic pastimes, they tended to sort of invade and make themselves at home without giving much thought to any dos and don'ts or consequences and once they left, willingly or otherwise, left behind one big, accumulated, messy, uhm, mess. And that did not even include the smelly part of it!; by a coughing and rasping Fili in what used to be Prince Frerin´s chambers.

The King had stilled and then let his fingers brush over the figurines with such tender reverence that Bilbo had felt not only very much an intruder but had also found himself quietly retreating lest his unruly arms should forget their entire, hobbit-ish sense of decorum and throw themselves around the stoic form in an embrace reminiscent to the one he had experienced on the Carrock, all those many months ago. Courtesy of the very same stoic figure.

Eru, those arms had been - 

And so they had taken to entering into a chess battle during one of those early shared evenings.

And that was when It had happened again.

Thorin crossing the chamber that served as Bilbo´s study and sitting room and which was home to a lovely fireplace in his bare feet the hobbit had fast become used to. He might not have questioned the oddity as much as a dwarf would have, but then he was a hobbit and as a hobbit did not put great store in footwear of any kind and those horrid, steel-caped things the King and his kin had stomped through his home in had met with his irked disapproval from the start so he saw nothing extraordinary really in his friend´s preference for ridding himself of any such confinement in private. Those wee things must like to breathe and move as much as anyone!

Only there was one, rather great problem with that lenient hobbit view of the matter.

Or rather, two problems.

As he found.

One – those bare, wee things showed a great affinity for exploring his own, rather more sturdy and sizeable appendages.

Two - 

They were -

Sensitive.

Very, very sensitive.

To the mountain climate.

Stone floors.

Cold floors.

The fact of the matter was - 

Thorin Oakenshield; Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror; King under The Mountain - 

Quickly suffered cold feet.

And no be it ever so ingenious dwarven heating system or abundance of rugs and furs were able to change said fact.

Which would all be perfectly well and good and not at all any business of any hobbit except for two further little facts - 

Cold did not do any good to any scars or scar tissue that were or was still healing. 

And said Thorin Oakenshield, while one could have and would have magnanimously forgiven any one-time prodding and brushing that took place around – under! - any dinner tables as it could clearly have been called mischievous, if tiresome, funnying (so what if he had tried to get rid of those bloody raisins! He would let Bombur in on the little secret that was his King not being nearly as fond of his walnut biscuits as His Majesty would have a trusting cook believe! Trying to feed them to his nephew´s pup. Honestly.), seemed to not think it anything out of the ordinary to make use of his hobbit guest´s much less squeamish feet as his personal warmth provider.

And while the hair on his feet was rather soft, yes, he drew a line at it being used as a cushion. Or a rug. Or something akin to a cuddly blanket. 

Uhm -

The thing was - 

Well - 

It was just that - 

Thorin´s feet -

They were rather adventurous. For such small things.

Really, it was quite unnecessary to explore so much in the quest for the warmest, cosiest spot!

And there certainly wasn´t anything of interest to be found near his – 

“ _Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

The guard who had been staring at the objects in his hand with puzzled interest (they did not seem dangerous to his King´s health as such and were really quite soft and – and fluffy and he rather appreciated their colour, if one was into that sort of thing, but why they had been presented to him in the first place was a riddle he found himself not entirely up to unriddling. Hm. Perhaps his colleague would -)

“They´re _mine_.”

The guard heaved a sigh.

Mayhap a short holiday was really for the best. Seeing he had not even heard the door swing open and had very nearly jumped when his King´s bare fingers had snatched the woollen objects out of his hand. And then the growl - 

He sniffed.

His wife had promised him a crusty meat pie. And ale. For breakfast.

First light would be upon them soon.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thick, calloused fingers closed around the two offenders in a manner that suggested that their owner was very pleasantly engaged in imagining them to be squeezing a rather more sizeable object.

Like a certain halfling´s delectable throat.

Which he had absolutely no wish of harming in any way – he would sooner cut off his braids than hurt his – their hobbit again; he was still astounded that Bilbo had forgiven him for all his many failings and unforgivable, shameful actions and it was no wonder that he had finally resigned himself to the inevitable outcome that was admitting that despite his utmost resistance, his inborn stubbornness, his vehement refusal and snarled protestations, their resident burglar had run after the dwarven company and tiresome wizard to poke and prod and scrape at what he had previously considered impregnable walls until they had begun to shake and crumble and enabled the ruthless creature to steal his stone heart without so much as by-your-majesty´s-leave.

And now he loved.

Thorin loved the insufferable little hobbit with every fibre of his being and while he would have preferred to continue his approach of Ignore The Imminent Departure And Ascertain That Any Time It Was Brought Up You Had To See To Some Ingeniously Invented Kingly Duty Or Other (he was _not_ afraid, no matter what Dis had seen fit to share on the subject; he was – strategic. Thinking. Pondering. Brooding. Worry-) eventually it was brought upon him that steps had to be taken. How the blasted hobbit could be so blind as to not realise what he was putting a rapidly greying dwarf through with his bright smiles and his intolerable cheek and his snarky comments that a dwarf could very well do without (unless they should be directed towards any resident of Mirkwood but no, the hobbit was unfailingly polite and proper when called upon to deal with any elven delegation lest the _King under the Mountain_ should – misbehave! He should have put an end to that impudence straight away and had very nearly done so but the timely recollection of their surroundings – Balin could say what he liked, if a member of his Council took to blanching at a mere glare sent in their direction a reconsideration of their profession was in high order! - and a supreme dislike of sharing even the slightest bit of the hobbit´s adorableness with those not immediate members of his Company - the hobbit would be all rosy cheeks and probably flush up to the tips of his ears and be all righteous indignation and respectability and then, hopefully, allow Thorin to scoop his soft little form up and carry him off to his chambers to exchange more of the delightful kiss- had prompted the King to postpone the punishment; if reluctantly.) and his honey coloured curls and those soft, round hips - 

Steps.

Thorin looked down at the two soft objects in his hand and very nearly whimpered.

~ ~ ~ ~

The indignity of it all!

Did the hobbit not realise how he had had to devise a plan that would enable him to be the first at dinner and the last to leave the table without raising any suspicions or causing more mirth in the already afflicted minds of his highly annoying sister-sons? He could not simply disinherit – or banish – them; not after the battle and their horrendous injuries and how close he had come to losing his boys – no, he would have had to stoically endure anything they should have thrown at him! And then there was Dwalin. Whom he could not have murdered for his snorts because then Ori would have spent the rest of his many years moping and Bilbo would have seen fit to scold him and shout at him and he was not nearly recovered enough to find it in himself to live with the idea of the hobbit being very much displeased with him. 

If any of those he cared about – clear fool that he was – had had any opinion on the matter of his sudden, exaggerated punctuality at dinner time and enjoyment of late hours nobody had remarked on it. He would just have continued to ignore Balin´s twitching eye and Nori´s waggling brows, if the one whom all his efforts had been directed at had not made it unmistakeably clear that they had gone very much more unappreciated than he had begun to quietly and joyfully assume. 

He was not to come anywhere near the hobbit´s feet.

And wear socks.

 _These_ socks.

The socks that he was currently holding in his hand.

The socks that Bilbo Baggins, notorious enemy of footwear of any and all sorts, had gifted him with.

 _Knitted_ for him.

So that he would not rub his naked feet against the hobbit´s larger exemplaries any longer.

Thorin ran a slow thumb down the length of one of the royal blue objects.

They were rather well shaped, given they had been a _very first attempt, Thorin, and I´m sorry if they do not meet with your usual standards but this really cannot go on and I will not sit here and – and continue to humour you just because you are being stubborn again and refuse to see Oin! Now put the blasted things on and then we can have tea._

A fist closed around the two woollen objects once more.

Oin.

It was not Oin he needed to see.

Oin could not free him from the incredible soreness in his heart. The sinking in of the utter despair that was his rejection.

Rejection.

Bilbo - _his_ Bilbo – had rejected him. 

Thorin, having lowered himself into one of the armchairs by the fire, the socks still in his hand, hunched further into himself, staring at the pair without really seeing them. He should not have listened to his well-wishers. Of course Bilbo could not return his love. He did not _deserve_ his little hobbit´s love. But he had hoped – and the book had taught him that when courting a hobbit – and he had been so certain that the hobbit had been receptive of his attentions. At dinner and then, later, in the privacy and domesticty of his private chambers. 

The King threw the socks across the room in one raging movement and glared at his – still bare – feet.

They seemed – adequate.

Paler than the rest of his body, largely unharmed (that one, single scar gave them - countenance. He supposed. Did feet have any countenance? They were just useful extensions of the body, carrying one from one point to the other. Largely unseen; if one wasn´t a hobbit. And -), entirely devoid of any hair.

Small?

Mahal!

What if his feet disgusted Bilbo?

What if they had made the hobbit laugh?

Had he completely disregarded proper dwarven courting etiquette and born the discomfort and embarrassment of hobbit-ish requirements only to be made a fool of?

He did not think that his feet were in any way reprehensible or inviting scorn but to one who prided himself on his much larger appendages and took the grooming and caring of the same ridiculously seriously (once – only once – had Thorin been allowed to assist his hobbit; and that had been when his suicidal, moronic, clever burglar had fallen ill after the episode with the barrels, which the King had made it his dignified mission to try very hard to forget, and had been put on the strictest bed rest by an uncompromising Oin. For some reason; Master Baggins, high with fever and his small body being wrecked by coughs, had insisted that the grooming of his feet was of particular urgency and only Thorin´s eventual quiet offer of taking a brush to their tops had seemed to calm the agitated hobbit somewhat. He did not think that the hobbit retained any memory of that day but he had not forgotten.) the feet of a dwarf; naked and small as they were, in comparison, might perhaps seem inferior.

Which would be a very superficial and cruel way to address the matter of courtship and he was going to inform the abominable Shireling of the same the very next morning! If he could not win the hobbit´s hand by the expedience of honest courting measures he was going to win it by underhand methods! 

The King groaned, leaning his head back against the chair.

He had surely aged another hundred years in the past hour.

He would put the appearance of more silver in his hair at the hobbit´s door as well. 

The hobbit.

Bilbo.

His Bilbo.

His love.

His heart.

His _ghivashel._

Who had given him – socks.

To cover his bare feet.

His naked, increasingly freezing feet.

But he would have born his feet turning into ice if it had meant that his hobbit would accept his courtship and subsequent offer of marriage.

Turning his head to glare at the offending pieces of wool; the King´s eyes narrowed on the actual bane of his existence.

He stood and walked over to the desk.

A fist fell on the open page.

~ ~ ~ ~

Really.

How - 

Dwarves!

Really.

Those - 

Did they have to be so dramatic all the time? 

It quite put one off the nightcap one had been planning on indulging oneself with!

And he had even been of a mind to share it with the ridiculous clot.

Because they were just socks, weren´t they.

Well, yes, maybe not his best work to date but he had never claimed to be an expert at that particular pastime and they had been his first and honestly, they were just _socks_! If anyone should be throwing any tantrums and blanch at the mere sight of the woollen torture devices it would be this hobbit, thank you very much!

If his neighbours should ever learn of him having actually knitted a pair of footwear, of nasty, impractical, toe-squishing contraptions – ah. Yes, but it was different for hobbits! There was no need for someone with such tiny, soft, hairless things to go into a royal miff over being ordered to wear them! And if the blasted dwarf did not look after the sweet wee things properly – that scar was still entirely too red and thick and he was going to drag His Royal Growliness to the infirmary by his braids after breakfast, see if he didn´t. The oaf. - and then was silly enough to traipse around his mountain without any protection and nearly causing them to freeze off then the only one in this mountain who appeared to have a smidgen of common sense left was going to take to knitting!

And there was nothing wrong with knitting, no matter what His Majesty thought on the matter.

Which wasn´t a whole lot, clearly.

At least not in any positive, appreciative, even mildly admiring manner.

He should have kidnapped Dwalin from the training grounds first.

For - practice.

 _Dwalin_ liked knitted things. And – things.

The mittens Ori had gifted him just last week had not only made it onto huge, tattooed hands, they seemed reluctant to ever come off them! Really, if anyone had told him that the Captain of Erebor´s Guard would sit at a feast, the picture of perfect serenity, while the eldest Ri brother nearly gave himself over to an apoplexy at the sight of his youngest sibling gently chastising the gruff warrior and coaxing him into taking the pair off if he intended to note use any cutlery on his roast. And would you look at it – the colourful objects had not only been taken off with the greatest care imaginable, they had also been gently placed in a leather-clad lap!

Which reminded him he should take that bag of very soothing tea leaves he had procured in Dale over to the Ri´s residence.

After he had dealt with their King.

Moronic dwarf.

Bilbo lowered his eyes to the offending contraptions in his arms.

Well.

At least he took the socks.

Right.

_Right._

The dwarf would be lucky if he chose not to throw either of them at his overlarge nose.

Which was quite pretty, thank you.

~ ~ ~ ~

“What are you – _Thorin Oakenshield!_!” The incensed hobbit lunged forward, sending the taller dwarf a scathing glare while cradling the tortured object against his chest. Honestly, he was well aware that in general, dwarves were not the most avid of readers but you´d think they had respect enough for the preservation of – of knowledge! And history! Because – Bilbo tightened his protective hold a little – this lovely little thing had clearly managed to survive the odd century or two; not to mention that unfortunate minor squabble with a dragon, and it was really not deserving of having thick, calloused fingers attempting to rip it into halves! Yes, and perhaps he should remove himself from the vicinity of this pleasantly crackling fire because he really would not put it past the obnoxious clot to try and wrestle the book out of his hands again and consign it to the flames and that was very much not going to be happening, not on this hobbit´s watch, and no folding of lovely thick arms and subsequent majestic posturing would move him in any way!

And he most certainly did not spend his time thinking about those lovely thick arms, thank you. He did not reminisce about how lovely their thickness had felt around his own smaller form on the Carrock, no. Nope. Not at all. Well – maybe … here and there. Sometimes. Occasionally. Fine, but he was just a hobbit among many, many dwarves in a very big mountain and - “ _Do_ you mind?!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“It is _mine_.”

A snort.

“You _will_ give it to me.”

A glare.

“Burglar.”

A sniff.

“ _Bil_ – if you do not wish for me to -” there was a brief crack in the deep, angry voice - “- paw at you again, you will let me burn it.” 

Honestly, the pawing wasn´t really that much of a problem; it was not that Bilbo would mind being pawed at by those really quite lovely hands at any other time and it had only been the knowledge that they had not actually meant to paw at him when they had pawed at him but that they had meant to snatch the poor little book back and could one just not return a book to the library if one did not find it to one´s taste? Ugh. Dwarves. Always so extremely dramatic. As he kept pointing out. And earning either complete bafflement or wide grins for his trouble. Dwarves. Why did he even put up with that lot. Philistines, as they were. Except for Ori, of course. And Balin, yes. The rest of the lot - 

“What has that poor book ever done to you, Thorin Oakenshield?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was ready to throw himself from the battlements.

Bilbo – his Bilbo – was in his chambers. Had, in fact, resolutely demanded entrance and evidently browbeat his guard into favouring the hobbit´s favour over his King´s favour (a common occurrence, in Thorin´s opinion, and one that he did not find it in himself to object to because it seemed perfectly natural to him that one would find the former burglar adorable and strive to obtain his approval; he had spent the last months engaged in that very pursuit. Or he had thought he had. It was sobering to comprehend that what you had considered your most open and direct efforts had not made the slightest impression. Not for the first time did the King wish for the easy manners that came so naturally to Bofur or his sister-sons.) and the smile that the hobbit had directed at his guard in thanks for dealing with the heavy door that should have protected him from -

Had he not dreamt of the hobbit in his chambers?

Of quiet evenings after yet another shouting session with his Council; of soft, nimble fingers running through his hair while his head rested in the hobbit´s lap; of carrying the laughing hobbit off to his bed; doing away with the all the too many buttons that obscured his view of -

Now the hobbit had sought him out in his chambers. To return his boots. After having presented him with – socks. And bent on preventing him from indulging in the only act that would give him satisfaction at that current moment. 

He was King. 

He was not going to fight any being for a book, no matter how beautiful and adorable and how they made his heart sing still, even after their rejection.

Arms still folded in front of his chest, the King returned the glare with what he hoped was kingly indifference.

“This tome, Master Burglar, which you would appear to have developed an unfortunate passion for, is undeserving of your devotion. I should think you would be glad to be relieved of a reminder of your -” There was that crack again - “- trials.”

“My – what –“ The hobbit sighed, only his inborn Shire politeness stopping him from rolling his eyes, the dwarf thought. “It´s a book, Thorin. And I think you´ll remember that between discouraging trolls from eating you lot, running from wargs, doing my best to not get squished by stone giants, having my tummy poked at by a giant bear-“ If the hobbit was anyone´s bunny he was Thorin´s bunny! “- and the small nuisances of wood elves and orcs and Lake-Town and an entirely too territorial dragon I did not quite have the leisure to peruse any literary works on the road. Not to mention how terrible rude it would have been to ask to see Ori´s journal! Honestly -” Mahal, that little huff was so adorable. “When would I have had the time to read a book? And for your information, Your Majesty -” Everything about the hobbit was adorable. Even his cute little attempts at mockery. “On the rare occasion I am entirely displeased with my reading material, I simply return it to a shelf.” He was absolutely not allowed to run a hand through those honey coloured curls. Not if Thorin was not allowed to test their softness for himself! “So. That´s that. About this book. I mean. Yes. So. Oh honestly, Thorin – will you just cover your feet, please!”

~ ~ ~ ~

The silence that follow the request was deafening.

Uhm - 

Surely - 

That face looked entirely too much like - 

But he didn´t - 

He hadn´t -

Uhm -

“Thorin?”

“Do you still despise me so, Master Burglar?”

What – no - 

“Thorin, what -”

“Are you so disgusted by the mere thought of my affections? The state of my feet?”

Affect- feet - wait, what?! Thorin had – feelings – for – what -

“I knew that what passed between us was unforgivable and yet, I had hoped … if I showed myself worthy, honouring the traditions of your people in this matter … that you would -” Anger seemed to flare back into the dwarf suddenly; the quiet, near-despairing tone of his voice giving way to remembered rage - “Why would you toy with me, burglar? Did I not humble myself enough? Did you think that assuring that I found myself the first at dinner, to not leave the table until all others had departed, that subjecting them to the cold of the stone caused me little inconvenience? And yet -” Oh, that horrible crack again! “I bore it all gladly. My advisers´ grumblings, Balin´s annoyingly knowing looks, the cold –“ Thorin looked down at the pair of blue socks which he had retrieved during his rant, one corner of his mouth lifting in a self-depreciating smile. “My only thought was to win you. To steal your heart as you had stolen mine. But never fear, Master Baggins. They – I shall not trouble you again.”

Bilbo had really tried hard to make sense of all the information and insinuations and nonsense thrown at his entirely perplexed person but all his quite horribly befuddled mind seemed to be able to snatch on was that apparently, Thorin – Thorin Oakenshield – Thorin, the King under The Mountain and of all the dwarves in Erebor - 

Thorin, the dwarf who was really quite horribly stubborn and rude and cantankerous and grouchy and tiresome and moronic and had no sense of direction and really lacked any talent in the diplomatic department was, apparently - 

In love with him?

Ah.

In love.

With him.

Bilbo.

Baggins.

A hobbit.

Of the Shire.

Ah.

Right.

Fine.

_Fine._

And - 

That thing with the naked feet and the book that the dwarf had been trying to destroy and the socks somehow … featured in all this?

Was it too late to ask for a drink?

A cup of tea, perhaps?

Because really - 

The eyes he caught staring at himself quickly looked down to where hands were in the process of pulling up socks but he had seen enough in them to be able to read the emotion in those blue depths. Oh. Oh Gods. Right. But - 

Bilbo looked down at the book that he still held clutched to his chest and - 

Blinked.

_Habits and Idiosyncrasies of the Inhabitants of the Kindly West_

Idio - 

He begged their pardon?

As if dwarves were any better.

Really.

Oh.

_Oh._

Surely - 

Quick, deft fingers flipped through the pages until they reached - 

_Chapter XI, Section 6 – Shire Courting Practices_

_”Strange as the appendages will appear to anyone not resident among the green hills, any being wishful of entering into a courtship with a member of the race is advised to express the seriousness of their attentions by applying their own rather more sensibly formed exemplaries to the task of hobbit-courting. Clean and well-groomed feet (particular attention to the state of toenails is recommended!) will endear themselves to a receptive partner, the lack of fur on any instep shall not cause any uproar as long as the suitor convinces the courted party of their seriousness through repeated and attentive stroking and exploration of the perpetually furred overgrown appendages.”_

“ _Overgrown_ – well, excuse me, but this hobbit´s feet are quite perfectly proportioned, thank you! And why would you even have to tell anyone to cut their toenails? Have I stumbled upon another Dwarven Oddity? Are you lot as fidgety about your toes as you are about your hair? Well – yours are perfectly well-kept, as is the rest of your feet, so maybe it´s just -”

“You approve of my feet?”

The hobbit quite missed the sudden, careful, hopeful note in the dwarven voice; incensed and flabbergasted as he was. 

“Hm? Yes, of course I do. They´re such wee, pretty things, your feet.” _Explore your chosen mate´s upper -_ How – how forward! And _rude_! Honestly, it was no wonder the dwarven race was so -

“Bilbo.”

“Really, you´d think that - oh.” 

The hobbit stared down at the hand that had covered his own, preventing him from turning another page. Which was just as well, he figured, because he might expose himself as having spent a little too much time among dwarves and tear out the more ludicrous pages in the silly little tome. And that hand really was quite pleasantly warm. Not at all like its cousins somewhat further down. And – and that stroking motion was really quite nice. How - 

“Bilbo.”

“Hm?”

“Do you accept?”

Accept - 

Ah.

Right.

The hobbit straightened so quickly in the chair he had taken to that his forehead nearly bashed into that of the dwarf king´s. And would that not have been lovely. If you were a dwarf. Whose heads were made of rock. That they also appeared to have rocks _in_ their heads was just a minor point for grumbling.

“You love me”, Bilbo began sternly.

“I -”

A hand waved imperiously.

“And you thought to court me by poking me with your horribly cold feet -”

“I did not seek to poke-”

“- because the one book you have deigned to poke your very striking nose in told you that it was a very hobbit-ish thing to do, if you meant to convince a hobbit of your enduring attachment.”

“My nose is not – I - yes?”

Permitting himself an exasperated sigh, Bilbo brought both his hands up to cup the bewildered face before him.

“Thorin.”

The dwarf; an endearing mixture of confused, irritated and cautiously hopeful, narrowed his eyes.

“Next time, try picking flowers.”

Before the much put upon dwarf king could muster all his indignity a cheeky mouth swooped down to silence any protestations.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I´ll have you know that knitting those horrible things is the highest kind of insult in hobbit culture.”

A rumble ran through the form the hobbit was currently resting on.

“I am touched.”

“You should be,” Bilbo huffed. “If ever my neighbours find out about my grievous transactions I shall never be able to show my face in Hobbiton again. And I´m very fond of Mrs Brambleton´s cherry pie, you know.”

The arms around the smaller form tightened.

“I shall wear them with pride.”

Bilbo stretched, rubbing his face contentedly against the soft fabric that covered a very interesting chest before burying the same in the crook between stubbly neck and collarbone.

“Staying until everyone left to be able to put on your boots again … when you could have just brought me a cake.”

There was a mumble about something like very cold feet and indignity and the surprising softness of the curls on large feet and interesting calves and - 

“Don´t make me tell Oin that you risked further injury on your mangled foot because of a silly book! Honestly, love, how you could even think hobbits would - _Thorin Oakenshield!_ You are _not_ to come anywhere near me with those cold – oompf -”

**Author's Note:**

> The guilt over having not updated OTQ since October is eating me alive. The past few months have been difficult in many ways and while I´ve wanted to write something often it was very difficult to get into the mood and I´ve been feeling rather insecure and disillusioned about my writing. This has been in the works for a few weeks and I eventually sat down and made myself finish it, I hope you enjoyed it a little - the idea is, once again, a plot bunny from [shinysparks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysparks.htm) ´ zoo which I adopted and adapted, with her approval. :) This fic is unbetaed and errors and typos may have escaped me, sorry for those and for the usual long sentence constructions. I try to make them behave but they are very rude and cheeky and just take to cackling and running away with me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and for the kudos, bookmarks and comments on my other work! They mean a whole lot and you all get a scoop of ice cream. <3
> 
> My [tumblr](http://heyerette.tumblr.com) ...
> 
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> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and shamelessly rearrange the wonderful work of Mr Tolkien and Mr Jackson for my own fictional purposes.


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